


Tattoo You

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Artist AU, Artist Aziraphale, Gen, tattoo artist crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 00:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: Tattoo artist Anthony Crowley needs permission from artist Azzie Fell to use Fell’s work for custom tattoos.  (Artist AU, Ineffable Husbands Bingo)





	Tattoo You

The first thing Az noticed was that the stranger entered the studio hips first. That was not easy to do, but with this fellow, that seemed to be the only way he knew how to move. A saunter that would've dislocated the hips of anyone else that tried, black snakeskin boots and black jeans, oh dear. One of  _ those _ types. Az just shook his head, and threw a sheet over his current canvas. "Can I help you?" he called out, coming around the studio corner to greet his guest.

Tall. Impossibly tall, the boots adding inches to his height. A gray scarf, a sleeveless black t-shirt, a black leather jacket, and flame red hair spiked high atop a pair of sunglass-covered eyes.  _ Oh, fuck. He's hot _ .

\---

Crowley sauntered into the studio. Everyone in Soho knew where the damn place was. Fell hosted his own gallery downstairs, rarely sold an original painting though he was quite thrilled to sign lithos. "Oi, anyone home?" he shouted, and heard the answer from back in the studio; Can I help you?

Circling the studio, he entered the back, just in time to catch Mr. A. Z. Fell--or Az, as he was sometimes known--come around the corner. Paint-stained work smock, beige everything else, a feisty little bow tie peeking out around the collar of his shirt and  _ was he actually wearing a goddamn button-up vest? _ Crowley looked him up and down, from the perfectly sensible loafers up to the curly blond hair, and felt himself flushing.  _ Oh, fuck. He's hot _ .

\---

The bell on Crowley's studio door jangled loudly, and he stopped his inventory and came up to the counter. “Yeah?” 

“You Tony Crowley?” The guy looked anywhere from 25 to 35, and he was skinnier than Crowley, which was saying something. Unfortunately, he'd just committed the cardinal sin of mispronouncing Crowley's name as in ow, that hurt. 

“Uh, no, I'm not. I'm  _ Anthony Crowley,  _ like the bird.” He lifted his chin and showed off the crow tattoo on his neck. “Call me Crowley.” Resting his hand on the counter, he leaned against it. “What do you want?” 

“Tattoo. Of this.” He slapped down a photo from the internet, and Crowley shook his head. 

“Sorry, mate, no can do. See, that's copyrighted artwork.” Crowley gestured to the shop walls, covered by sketches and finished tattoos. “Original design only, or stuff like that,” he added, pointing to celebrity faces, inked autographed body parts, and Disney or comic book characters. 

“Can you draw something like that? Maybe just a little bit different but close to it?” 

Crowley pushed the photo back. “Sorry. Need to get the artist to give permission, and good luck. Azzie is notorious for not selling anything unless he has to.” 

“No kidding.” The guy looked deflated as he put the picture away. “Thanks anyway.” 

\-----

That exact scene occurred three times over the next two days, and Crowley was getting sick of it. He knew the guy’s work; everybody knew Az’s work. The guy’s studio was a decent walk away from Crowley’s shop, and that pretty much made the decision for him. He closed the shop up for a long lunch, posted a sign that read  _ Bugger Off, Back Whenever _ , locked the door, and sauntered down the sidewalk. 

As he walked, Crowley rehearsed what he was going to say in his head.  _ Hey, Az. You license your work? I got a lot of people coming in that want your stuff tattooed on their skin. I don’t do flat rates, it depends on the tattoo. But I’ll give you a percentage of every tattoo of your stuff that I do, and a monthly fee on top, to be exclusive. _

Only when he was outside of the studio did he realize he had brought no paperwork, no money, not even the photographs brought by the customers. Well, it didn’t matter. He could at least talk to the poncy fuck, and deal with the rest of it later. 

\-----

Swallowing hard, Crowley let air hiss out through his teeth. “You Azzie?” Of course he was Azzie, but the stupid question at least bought him a moment to breathe.

“Why yes, I am.” Surprised that a person like this knew his name, Az pulled a paint-covered smock over his head, and tossed it to the side so he could offer his hand. “Azira Fell, actually, but Azzie seems to what everyone else prefers, so.” He gave a shrug of his shoulder as the other man finally clasped his hand. His skin radiated heat, and his hands were nearly as calloused as his own were. “And you are?”

“Crowley, Anthony Crowley.” He clasped Az’s hand, surprised at the startling coolness before letting go quickly. 

That name certainly sounded familiar. “I believe I’ve heard your name, Mr. Crowley, I--”

Crowley held a tattooed hand up, stopping him. “No Mister, please. Just Crowley. And yeah, I’m in the neighborhood, I run--”

“Inferno?” Azzie asked, his lips quirking upwards. “Certainly explains the callouses.”

“Callouses?” Crowley looked down at his hands.

“Yes, I noticed when we shook hands, you’ve similar callouses to mine. Combine that with the tattoos, it was easy to put it together. You’re the owner of Inferno Tattoo Studio,” Azzie explained. “You opened up not long after I moved in here,” he finished. “I see a lot of your work on the street around here, don’t I?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” Crowley was oddly pleased that this stuffy little man knew him, if only by name. “S’why I’m here.”

Azzie gave a gentle smile as he tilted his head. “No, I don’t think I’d like a tattoo at the moment, I’m sorry. Perhaps another time.”

The snake tattoo on Crowley’s face rippled sinuously as he laughed. Couldn’t help it; tried imagining the fancy ponce with a tattoo and failed, utterly. “Not that,” he got out as he grinned. “Need to talk to you serious like. Want to have a drink?” Wait, where the hell did that come from?

“Well, I am a bit peckish,” Azzie admitted, and looked at the large clock on the wall. “I seem to have worked through lunch; if you’d like to change that drink to a quick bite, I’d be delighted.”

“My pleasure,” Crowley answered with a sweeping bow. “What are you in the mood for?”

It took Azzie only moments to answer. “How do crepes sound to you?”

\-----

L’Eto was a delicious little restaurant, with an all-day breakfast menu that was well-acquainted with Azzie. “Monsieur Fell, welcome! Your table is open, if you and your friend will follow me.” 

At Crowley’s raised eyebrow, Azzie just smiled. “I come here often.”

“Your table,” he repeated skeptically. But he took the chair that was pulled out for him, and accepted the menu placed in his hands. 

“Your usual, Monsieur Fell?” the waiter asked, pouring two cups of hot coffee and placing them on the table.

“Oh, yes, please. With lemon and sugar.”

“And for your friend?” The waiter turned expectantly. 

Crowley scanned the menu quickly. “Uh, the french toast, thanks.” 

“Very good, sir.” He took the menu as Crowley held it out, and then disappeared. 

“Oh, you won’t be disappointed. They always fry it so golden and soft, it’s delicious.” Azzie stirred sugar and creamer into his coffee, much more of the first than the second. “Now, what was it you would like to discuss?”

Crowley drank it black. “Well, the thing is, I’ve had people coming into my shop all week, different ones, mind you, wanting your artwork tattooed on. Now I’ve said no, because honestly, I don’t mind screwing Disney out of a few pounds of copyright when I ink up a Mickey Mouse, but…” He shrugged, and took another sip of coffee. “Won’t do that to a real artist.”

Azzie’s smile was like a benediction as it spread across his face. “Oh, my dear, that’s quite kind of you! I’m flattered, really, but--”

“Oi.” Crowley shook his head. “Look, I got a plan. You give me your permission to tattoo your art on somebody, and every time I do it, I pay you part of the cost. Plus, I’ll give you a monthly stipend for being the only one you let do it. Work like yours, depending on what the bloke wants, that’d be anywhere from £400 to upwards of £1000,” he continued on, giving Azzie no chance to break in. He’d produced a pen from somewhere, and was scribbling figures on a paper napkin. “Give you twenty percent plus a monthly, say another £200, and you could be pulling in at least £300, minimum, and likely a hell of a lot more.” He only stopped when the waiter brought more coffee, and then a few minutes later, their food. “Should have brought the photos but I wasn’t thinking when I left. But they’re pretty complicated. One was the cubic one, one lady wanted the winged seraph on her back--that’s a pretty £1000 right there--don’t remember the others, but.” He tapped the napkin as Azzie started to eat. “That’s £200 for the monthly, twenty percent of £500 for the cubist, twenty of £1000 for the seraph, total £500, and you didn’t even have to do anything. That’s only for two tats, Azzie.”

Not that he would have admitted it, but Azzie had heard precisely none of it. He had watched Crowley’s mouth, heard his voice, watched the pen scratch quickly on the napkins, and he simply didn’t care. This Crowley didn’t seem to give a damn who he was. 

Most people would have been pelting him with questions, begging for his autograph, hounding him about his work, and basically making this experience as unpleasant as possible. Crowley, however, didn’t care about any of it, treated him like a real person, and was… still talking about money and rights and things Azzie really didn’t care about. “Crowley--”

Crowley paused in his spiel. “Yes?”

“I don’t care.” Another beatific smile as he shoved a forkful of sugared crepe in his mouth. “You can do whatever you like, and I’ll sign the papers.” 

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley blinked. “You  _ what? _ ”

“I don’t care,” he said again. “I paint because I like to paint. I don’t really need the money, my family is quite wealthy and I’m very well settled. You could do it for free, but I gather that would bother you, so whatever you like, I’m all right with that. I will sign the papers you bring me, and we’ll be partners.” 

What Crowley meant to say was,  _ You need to reconsider that, _ but what came out of his mouth was, “Have you gone  _ completely _ around the bend?”

“Some people think so, yes.” Azzie patted his mouth with his napkin. “But no, I’m quite serious. You and I can work together, you can be the exclusive artist for my works, and perhaps I can tempt you into sharing the studio space with me. It’s quite extensive, I only use the half of it. It was originally meant to be a bookshop or something, so there’s plenty of room for you if you’d like.”

“You’re going a bit fast here, don’t you think?” asked a stunned Crowley. “Next you’ll be asking me to move in with you.”

“Well, I do live in a flat above the studio, but I’m sure something could be arranged--”

“No, you wanker, I wasn’t being serious!” Crowley massaged his forehead, and ignored his French toast until he saw Azzie’s fork heading towards the plate. He pushed it over then, and moved the empty plate out of the way. “Tuck in.”

“You’re too kind.” Azzie fell on the French toast like a starving man.

_ What the hell am I getting myself into, _ Crowley demanded of himself. “So let me get this straight. We just met, but you like my callouses and you’ve seen tattooed people walking about, so you’re going to not only agree to terms without your barrister but you’re going to offer me studio space for my tattoo parlor and call us partners?”

Azzie paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “Well, yes. Don’t you think so? I mean, I wasn’t quite listening to everything you said, but the numbers on the napkin do seem quite fair, and if you’re going to be the exclusive artist for my work, then you’re definitely going to find an uptick in customers if you’re sharing studio space with me.”

Crowley flipped the napkin over. Wrote out hastily,  _ £200 monthly fee + 20% of tattoo cost, rent-share on the studio space, percentage to be determined.  _ Then Crowley signed his name, the Y doubling back on itself until it vaguely resembled the snake tattoo on his face. “Here, take a look, and if you like it, sign it.” He pushed the napkin and the pen over to Azzie. 

Azzie scanned it over, saw nothing that didn’t sound like what Crowley had said before, and tapped the napkin. “The rent shall be split 60%-40%, since I will likely be taking up more space than you,” he added sternly. 

“Fine, write it in, I’ll initial it.” Crowley had the sinking suspicion that he was going to be watching out for this guy, because if he was this kind to everybody? There were going to be a lot of people trying to take advantage of him. “Look, Azzie--”

Azzie passed the signed napkin back over, his signature copperplate gothic. “Aziraphale, if you must know. My parents, good Lord, I don’t know what they were thinking. The rest of the world doesn’t take you seriously if you’ve only got the one name.”

“Madonna,” Crowley said after a moment. “Bono. Sting. Cher.”

“Yes, well, I’m no be-bopper, therefore, I had to break it up into two names. A. Z. Fell, and my agent first called me Azzie. I don’t like it, but it’s better than nothing.” 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley rolled it off his tongue. “I kind of like the sound of that. Very mystical, almost.” He initialed the rent percentage, then folded the napkin in half and handed it to Aziraphale. “You got a safe in that studio, don’t you?”

“Actually I do--oh, yes.” He took the folded napkin, tucked it in his waistcoat, and patted it gently. “I shall spirit our contract away to safety posthaste.” He darted his eyes back and forth, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him lean in over the table. “Er, Crowley?”

Crowley leaned in forward. “Yes?”

“Would it be… I mean, could I possibly trouble you for… I would like a tattoo after all,” he finally got out in a rush. "I think I can trust you with that." 

“Of course, what do you want?” Crowley lifted his chin to show off his crow, then the snake on his temple. “I’ve got a couple sleeves done too, one’s black and white and one’s color. Come on.” He got up from the chair, grabbing the check before Aziraphale could. “My treat.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my shop, we can get you started.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale jolted to his feet beside Crowley. “I didn’t know you could do that right away.” 

Crowley shrugged as he passed over the shop’s Mastercard. “Don’t have an appointment until tomorrow morning, and walk-ins are used to waiting and flipping through the walls to find what they like. What are you thinking about?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

Crowley pocketed the credit card and scrawled his signature on the slip. “Can’t promise that, but I promise I’ll try not to. Fancy a walk or you want a taxi?”

“Oh, I’d love to walk, thank you!” Aziraphale was fidgeting until they got out onto the sidewalk. “All right, if you promise.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’d like a pair of wings.”

Crowley’s feet tangled on the sidewalk and he nearly spilled onto the concrete. He caught himself quickly enough that he only stumbled. “What kind of wings?” 

Aziraphale was so caught up in his own concerns that he barely noticed Crowley’s stumble. “Angel wings, on my shoulders.” 

Crowley peeled off his jacket, and handed it to Aziraphale. The black tank top underneath showed a pair of black feathered wings that took up the entirety of Crowley’s back. “You mean something like that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “Well, yes, actually. I was rather hoping mine could be white, or perhaps just an outline--” 

Crowley took his jacket back, but didn’t put it back on. He draped it over his arm, and fell back into step beside Aziraphale. “I made the design myself, I drew it and made the transfer. A friend of mine inked it in because I couldn’t reach. I still got the drawing, it’ll take me about a half an hour to make the transfer, and then I’ll start inking it in today. It’ll take two, maybe three hours to do the full outline, so if you want it all done at once I’ll start on you after I close up. Coloring it white, that’s going to take significantly longer. But you can decide once you see the outline. I’ll draw it on with marker first, so you can make sure it’s right, and then we’ll go from there.”

“I can write you a cheque--”

“No. It’s on the house.” Crowley refused to take Aziraphale’s money. “Come on, angel, let’s get going.”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. “What did you just call me?”

“Angel. With those wings, and that hair for your halo? That’s what you’re going to look like when I’m done with you.” 

“Angel.” Aziraphale tested the weight of that out, and decided that he liked the way that it felt, coming from Crowley. “Yes, I think I like that. I don’t know that I’d want anyone else to call me that, but I believe from you, it’s appropriate.”

“Yeah, it just felt right,” Crowley agreed. He wasn’t quite sure of it, but at some point,  _ oh fuck, he’s hot _ had morphed into  _ oh, shit, I really like this guy. _ Walking down the Soho sidewalk with Aziraphale felt… oddly right, like it was something they had done a thousand times before and were meant to do a thousand times more. 

So he wasn’t very surprised at all when Aziraphale reached out and captured his hand, holding it tightly as they passed through the crowded sidewalk towards Inferno. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Inferno is Crowley’s tattoo parlor, and yes, it’s named after Dante.   
https://www.cloakanddaggerlondon.co.uk/prices/ is the source of the tattoo estimates and complexity pricing Crowley gives Azzie.   
https://letocaffe.co.uk/menus/ is L’Eto


End file.
